


What We Are

by qalliope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bees, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qalliope/pseuds/qalliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has discovered he doesn't love Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't think anyone can, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Are

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=70463514#t70463514) on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme, Part XXI:
> 
>  _"If I told you I still loved you, that I always loved you, that I loved you to distraction, would you leave him?" (feel free to change that to 'her' if you so wish!)_
> 
>  _Any response, story, pairing, whatever._

The sun is warm, but not overly so, as John treks up the beaten path. He'd taken his cane along this time—brand new, carved with the finest wood money could buy. Unconsciously, he fondles the sturdy handle, pressing his palm into the glistening initials he knows are engraved there.

John nearly laughs aloud at how sentimental he's become.

He stumbles only twice, and when he hears the first soft buzzing noises, his mouth twists into a heartbreaking smile. Greg has told him he can still make off with a woman half his age, if he so wishes. Or a man, he'd added, but by that point Sherlock had risen from his chair and promptly smacked Greg over the head with John's latest book, _The Great Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_.

Sherlock rode him that night, if memory serves (and by God, John will _always_ remember those times when Sherlock let himself go, when the man would mount John like he's been made for the purpose, moving up and down on John's cock and moaning as if John was the only tangible substance keeping him on this goddamn planet—and fuck, in retrospect, maybe he _was_ ). He'd complained about it afterward, of course, cursing his bad back and forcing John into giving multiple backrubs, all of which ended up in more impossible sex in impossible positions. But then, that was probably Sherlock's plan in the first place anyway, that bastard.

John flushes at the memory, his cane tipping dangerously to the side. He rights himself immediately, chuckling, and continues. He doesn't remember the path taking this long, admittedly, but he supposes each time will be a bit longer than the one before. He knows he's a doctor— _will_ be a doctor—for the rest of his life, no matter what his current occupation may be, but sometimes it's nice to overlook the facts. A task Sherlock abhors, naturally, but nevertheless, it's pleasant to pretend.

John is not dying, not yet, but he's not gallivanting London and putting bullets into criminals' heads, either. He thinks it's probably some form of dying, and has told Sherlock so more than once, usually as a follow-up to a few pints and after rubbing furiously at the wet patches on his face. They won't stay dry no matter how many kisses Sherlock presses there, and when he wakes up in the morning, he finds his friend's lips all but plastered to his temple. It's probably the most uncomfortable sensation to wake up to, but all it does is send John into another waves of tears, and this time he's muttering all those clichéd phrases he thought he'd never say aloud to a lover.

But that's just what they are, John supposes. Sherlock has never been one for rules, and John has never been one to go against Sherlock's wishes.

The buzzing steadily increases in volume, and John knows he's close. He always knows, just as Sherlock always knows to keep the gate open on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays around three in the afternoon. John has a key, of course, but Sherlock believes it rather defeats the purpose. After all, John has realised it's never too late to put a neglected heart to good use.

This time, John does laugh aloud, and embraces his sentimentality like he does with everything else: a neutral grin, a cheery disposition, and a damn good cuppa.

When John can barely see the gate at the end of the path, he consciously speeds up a bit. It's only been four hours since he's seen Sherlock, but, well. Twenty years, and John's heart still beats a little faster when Sherlock's fingers brush his skin, even in the most casual of touches. Twenty years, and falling asleep to the tender sounds of Sherlock's violin will never stop being one of the most romantic things the man has ever done for John. Twenty years, and never again will a bullet through the shoulder or a dream of fear and cold plague John in the years to come.

John has discovered he doesn't love Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't think anyone can, really. It's not a word that fits, and John doesn't like it anyway. He _is_ a writer, though: he's bound to find an adequate replacement soon enough. (Five books and he's still searching.)

He shakes himself from his thoughts as the hand not gripping his cane tentatively pushes at the gate's door. It opens easily, and John grins stupidly. The small things will never cease to amuse him, something Sherlock finds obscenely adorable. The afternoon sun beats down onto his back, and the buzzing is nearly overwhelming. John can feel it in his very core. He's never liked bees much, having been stung by a nasty string of three bumblebees in his youth, but Sherlock treats them like his own babies. It's the closest thing John will get to having children with him, so John takes it and makes Sherlock promise the damn insects won't fly near his person when John goes to see him.

John's about to head over to the small shed where the bee helmets are kept, but as soon as he hears voices, he stops dead, instantly on the alert. He runs through the seventeen ways he can use his cane as a weapon and inches toward the other side of the small enclosure, near the fenced off beehives. John recognises one of the voices as Sherlock's, but the other voice (male, soft, weak) is indistinguishable.

Who the _fuck_ would come all this way to talk with Sherlock near fucking _beehives_?

"This is pointless, you realise," Sherlock is saying, and John suddenly wonders if the other man is an old enemy he'd made years back, when Sherlock was still using and making the wrong people angry. John had disabled two of those thugs in the past, but neither of them had made it past the front door of the cottage. But this one made it all the way to Sherlock's bees.

John curses. He's never letting Sherlock out of his sight again. His grip on the cane tightens, and the initials dig into his palm. They comfort him as he walks forward, the voices getting louder with each step.

"Pointless?" the man repeats, and his tone is not familiar but it _is_ , and John hates himself. He wants to quickly turn the corner of the tall, thick bushes and knock the shit out of this man, but a move like that is foolish, especially when John can barely walk correctly, let alone move _quickly_. "Oh, Sherlock. Nothing I do is pointless. Surely you haven't forgotten _that_."

"Hmm," Sherlock hums. He doesn't sound distressed or hurt in any way, and John breathes a sigh of relief. Just talking, then. Well, just talking _now_ , at any rate.

Dammit. Why is his gun still under the floorboards in their room? Why isn't it here, in John's hands?

Dammit.

"Maybe not pointless," Sherlock acquiesces. "But you do know how foolish it is to come here? Now? All these years, and I was under the impression you were _clever_."

John goes cold.

"You thought me clever? Oh! My goodness! The great Sherlock Holmes thinks I'm _clever_. I believe I can die happy now, my dear."

"It's a pity, really. Chronic laryngitis, is it? I do believe not one person today would recognise you, Moriarty."

Suddenly, John can't move. He's frozen to the spot, breathing harshly through his nose and blinking rapidly. He's holding his cane so tightly it might become an extra appendage if he's not careful.

Moriarty. Sherlock is talking to Moriarty. Sherlock is talking to Moriarty near his ( _their_ ) bees and Sherlock isn't even _fazed_ and _Moriarty is standing metres away_ and if John can just regain control of his own body maybe he can—

"That's the _point_ , isn't it?" Moriarty whispers brokenly, and any pretense he'd tried to maintain during the conversation falls away instantly. There's no accent there, no shadow of the man John spent the last twenty years cursing to the lowest pits of hell. There's nothing in that voice but weariness and pain. It's the voice of a man who has lost, in more ways than one.

John wants to feel triumphant, but he can't. There's something wrong; John shouldn't be here, in this place. Shouldn't be listening to this. There's a reason Moriarty is here, by Sherlock's bees, and not at the cottage, where John is, where John _always_ is (except for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays around three in the afternoon). Maybe he's planned it this way. But then, upon hearing that voice stumble through syllables, maybe not.

"I'm not the man you crossed paths with twenty years ago," Moriarty gasps. "I stopped. I know you noticed. All the consulting, all the killings, all the bombs. I obliterated my entire network. I—"

"You hid like a coward and once Mycroft's people got involved, you gave it all up so you could remain alive. Selfish," Sherlock interrupts, and there's venom in his voice. "You pathetic little man."

"You're upset because you never found me." It's a statement, and John can tell Moriarty is trying his damnedest to keep his voice steady.

"I'm upset because you threatened the life of the man I would gladly die for," Sherlock hisses, and something warm unfurls deep in John's belly. "I'm upset because you're not a _challenge_ anymore. You're nothing to me now. The game is over, and you've lost. _Jim_."

John can hear Moriarty breathe deeply. "He's still with you, then. Your _pet_."

"John Watson is a good man," Sherlock spits.

"He did drag your body out of the remains of that pool," Moriarty says, almost begrudgingly. "I suppose thanks are in order?"

"Stop this nonsense. Why are you here? What do you want?"

It's silent for a minute, and John swears they can hear his breathing. He's beyond confused, and Moriarty sounds so vulnerable, and Sherlock sounds so angry. John feels like he's missing some part of the puzzle, and that's probably the only thing keeping him from taking the man down at this point.

"You loved me, once," Moriarty mumbles. "I could see it. It wasn't just my game that enthralled you. It was me. It was my genius. It was my brain. It was my body. You fell in love with me, and you were afraid. You ran into _his_ arms, though, and you never looked back."

"That was twenty years ago," Sherlock says, deadpan, and John hears his cane _crack_. "I was foolish, and you were the only one with an intellect to match mine. I know now not to make that mistake."

"Do you?" Moriarty says. His voice is so, so weak, but it's deadly. "There's still time, Sherlock. There's still time to choose me. I know you've thought about all the things we could accomplish. Just think."

"I have," Sherlock says, without missing a beat. "I've chosen correctly."

"Sherlock," Moriarty gasps, and he's desperate now, wheezing out the words as fast as his old vocal chords will let him. "If I told you I still loved you, that I _always_ loved you, that I loved you to distraction, would you leave him?"

Sherlock doesn't respond immediately. John has blocked out the sound of buzzing bees for quite some time now. He can hear nothing. He can feel nothing. Because Sherlock doesn't respond with a _no, I'm quite happy with the relationship I already have, thanks_ right when the question was asked. Because Sherlock is _contemplating_ the question.

Because once upon a time, Sherlock was in love with Jim Moriarty, the man who had murdered and deceived and _laughed_ about it, and he'd never so much as mentioned it to John. John, the man Sherlock Holmes would die for, apparently.

The words taste like acid on his tongue.

"I think it would be for the best if you left now, Moriarty," Sherlock says, finally.

In that moment, John runs. Runs past the bushes, through the gate, down the path, into their cottage. He doesn't stop until he reaches their bedroom. Their bedroom, with Sherlock's smell and Sherlock's dressing gown and Sherlock's skull and Sherlock's _everything_. John collapses onto the bed, panting, and he barely notices when the abused cane falls from John's limp hand. It clatters to the floor, an ungodly sound, and rolls under the bed. It takes him nearly five minutes to regain his breath, and when he does, dry sobs rack his spent body.

He'd wanted to grow old with Sherlock Holmes, happy and loved and wanted. And now, _now_ , all John can wonder is if the meeting he had discovered had been their first, or if Sherlock had been replacing John's name is his head when they made love, when John made him dinner, when John brought him tea, and when John watched him with his bees.

John does his best to curl up into a ball (on Sherlock's side of the bed), and he lets a lone tear fall onto the pillow.

When he wakes an hour later, Sherlock's lips aren't pressed to his temple.

. . . . .

Sherlock stumbles in through the door around seven, and John is in the kitchen making dinner. He comes up behind John and hugs him around the middle, pressing his face into John's neck.

"Hello there, stranger," he mumbles.

"Mm," John says.

"What's for dinner tonight, then?"

"Chicken."

"Excellent, I'm starved," Sherlock says, kissing John's ear once and whirling away to set the table. "How was your day? You're very tense. You must not have written much."

John freezes. He looks down at the chicken sizzling in the pan, then over to Sherlock, who was grabbing two plates from the cupboard. "I—no. I haven't."

"Don't worry, I'll help you tonight. Which case are you doing? The Sheridan one, I believe? That one was rather intricate."

"I." John doesn't know what to say. Surely Sherlock knows he's been out there today. It's Wednesday, for God's—

"Sherlock, what day is it?"

"Hmm?"

"What. Day. Is. It?"

"Thursday, John. Obviously."

John stabs a piece of chicken. "Oh. Right." He prepares the rest of their dinner in silence, and when they sit down to eat, John feels nothing. He doesn't remember what the chicken tastes like, or what Sherlock blabbers on about. He sees Moriarty's face, old and wrinkled. He sees a young Sherlock embracing a young Moriarty at the pool, laughing as they watch John drown. He hears Sherlock and all of the times he's said _I love you_. He hears Moriarty say it back.

They make love that night, under the covers and subdued. Sherlock pushes in slowly, and John can't remember, but he's pretty sure he whined, low and rough, telling Sherlock to go _faster, deeper, that, like that, just like that, oh Sherlock, oh_ Sherlock, _I love you, I fucking love you_ —

Almost two weeks later, as John cleans the bedroom, he finds his cane under the bed.

 _J. H-W._ glares at him in glistening letters.

It's a Tuesday, and Sherlock is out tending to his bees. John will never set foot near the gate for the rest of his life. Sherlock will never say a word about it.

But that's just what they are, John supposes.

(John's next book is called _Sherlock Holmes: the Best Crimes and the Worst Criminals_. He still hasn't found a word to describe what he feels for Sherlock Holmes.

He stops looking.)


End file.
